4:41 p.m. (Local Time)
National Crime Agency
Hamilton’s Office
“Damn it!” Hamilton and Cruz whirled their heads toward Hardy. Getting the details of the second gunfight from Charity, he slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it!” He planted a hand on a hip and cursed twice more. “All right, Cherry, put Franks on…Franks, it’s Shepherd. My people are on foreign soil with every law enforcement agency in the country thinking they’re murderers. Getting caught is not an option. I have their extraction covered, but you need to get them to the rendezvous point…alive.”
“They got the jump on me once. It won’t happen again.”
“Copy that. I’m entrusting you with precious cargo. Don’t—”
“I won’t let you down, Shep. They’ll get there.”
Hardy disconnected the call and tossed the mobile onto the desk. Leaning forward, he put his palms on the furniture. Starting at one end, he swept everything off the surface—at least that is what he wanted to do. Standing erect, hands balled, he glared at Hamilton. “I want Kimmler in custody before the day is over.” He pointed. “Do you have any contacts in Germany, anyone who can fast track this?”
Cruz touched his upper arm. “What happened?” Hardy told Charity’s tale, and Cruz folded hands around her nose and mouth.
Hardy raised his own hand. “Don’t worry. They’re fine. Dahlia’s got more cuts and scrapes, but they’re both fine.” He paused. “Cherry says they’re getting a little hangry, but other than that...”
“Hangry?” said Hamilton.
He mimed making a snowball. “It’s a mish mash of words…hungry, angry.”
“Oh,” she tipped her head back, “Oh,” and nodded, “I get it.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Those German contacts?”
Hamilton picked up the desk phone. “I’ll start making—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a voice from the doorway. “I found something interesting.”
She put the receiver back in the cradle. “What is it?”
Wearing a navy blue business suit, tan nylons and blue pumps, a woman in her mid-to-late-twenties, blonde hair in a bun, sporting designer eyeglasses, handed a piece of paper to Hamilton. “Doctor Robert Kimmler has a residence not far from here, up in Stratford. I did a quick check of phone records, electricity consumption, etc. and it seems someone’s been living there. I only went back a few months, but the numbers fluctuate enough to suggest that the place is not sitting idle. In fact, water and electrical usage spiked in the last day.”
Hamilton took the paper. “How’s that possible? Our intel says Kimmler is single and lives alone in Germany.”
“Even if he has a second home,” said Hardy, “Kimmler met with our people in Munich just a few hours ago. There’s no way he could have made it to…” he looked at the female analyst and rolled his hand.
“Stratford,” she said.
“Yes, Stratford…there’s no way he can be in two places at once.”
Hamilton eyed the paperwork. “He might have someone house sitting.”
“May I see that?” Cruz took the sheet of paper from Hamilton. “This says Robert Kimmler.” She glimpsed Hardy out of the corner of her eye. “Cherry said she met with a Richard Kimmler.”
Hardy pointed at the paper in her hands. “You see his picture. It’s the same man Cherry and the guy we have in lockup ID’d. It must be a mix-up on the name. Maybe his middle name is Robert or Richard and he goes by one or the other.”
She wagged a finger at him. “Was Cherry a hundred percent sure it was the same man?”
He nodded. “Yes…she said…he looked different in person, but that it was definitely him.”
Cruz stared at the wall behind Hamilton’s desk. “Different in person,” she tapped her lips with a forefinger, “Different in…” She cocked her head. Her eyes widened.
Hamilton saw the other woman’s expression. Recognition washed over Hamilton’s face. She acknowledged the analyst, “Thank you, Jessica,” while lunging for the desk phone. “This is Ellen Hamilton. I need a team geared up and ready to go in twenty minutes.”
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